


The Opal Month

by a_silver_sun



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 05:50:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21192605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_silver_sun/pseuds/a_silver_sun
Summary: A small handful of mattelektra fics and ficlets filled for mattelektrashiptober on tumblr





	1. Spar

**Author's Note:**

> "October is the opal month of the year. It is the month of glory, of ripeness. It is the picture-month."
> 
> \- Henry Ward Beecher

**Spar**

*

In the ring, Matthew bounces on his feet, blood still up from the fight. “C’mon,” he says, panting, and beckons Elektra with his tape-wrapped hands. His hair is a wet mop and sweat pours into his eyes, but he doesn’t bother wiping it away. “C’mon,” he repeats. “Again.”

She very often takes Matthew to the best hotels and restaurants Manhattan has to offer, where they enjoy fine meals, soft beds, and each other. But he only ever brings her here, to this shitty hole known as_ Fogwell’s Gym_.

She can’t say she _minds_, because here he gives her a gift more valuable than anything money can buy, and that is his full, true self. This place is home to him and within these walls he can be free. It would be an insult to take something that priceless for granted. And Elektra is too well-mannered for that. “Like this?” she teases and fakes him out by throwing a left jab only to knock him on his ass with a low leg sweep.

He laughs, delighted she bested him, though she strongly suspects he allowed it. “Exactly like that,” he says and hauls her down to the mat with him.

*


	2. Crimson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU in which Matt (ostensibly) attends Harvard instead of Columbia
> 
> (nsfw)

** Crimson**

*

Matt writhes against Elektra’s clean, crisp bed sheets as she drags her weapon-sharp fingernails across his bare chest. He gives her a wicked grin and a small laugh when she does it again. She’s drawn blood; he can taste it in the air and on his lips when he licks them. 

He isn’t in Elektra’s bed to taste himself, though, so he sets his hands firmly on her bare ass and nudges her up. She hums knowingly and kisses and caresses his face before climbing up and straddling him there. 

He licks his lips again. How had he not realized until today that he is a parched man in the desert and she his oasis? Will she judge him terribly for how greedily he drinks?

She gently rocks atop him like a boat tied to shore. “Tell me your ambitions,” she says as she runs her fingers through his hair, scratches his scalp. He groans because his mouth is otherwise occupied and she’s expecting an answer.

Nearby, the Red Line rumbles beneath Harvard Square, and if he hadn’t skipped classes today, he’d probably be on that train right now, heading home for the day.

“This,” he says and peppers her inner thigh with a flurry of kisses. She’s still moving above him, though, so he takes the hint and gets back to it.

He slides his hands up the flat plane of her back. Immediately she grabs them, guides them toward her breasts. And he and Elektra move in unison. As it should be.

“What,” she says, “Your sole ambition in life is to have loads of sex?”

He laughs through his nose, and between a barrage of wet, sloppy kisses, says an emphatic, “Yes.” She tastes incredible and he doesn’t want to stop. Ever. “Isn’t it everyone’s? But. I meant being here. With you.” 

She makes a sound of disappointment at that and pulls herself away. “Elektra,” he complains, but she doesn’t go far, she’s just shifting her focus.

This is her show, he’s just along for the ride.

“Elektra,” he repeats as she guides him into herself. The pace she sets is maddenly gentle. And quiet. Her heart stays at a resting rate and her breathing remains slow and deliberate. It’s obvious she wants to drag this out for as long as possible, and that’s fine, he’ll take whatever he can get, but he doesn’t think he’ll survive it.

He groans. It’s more of a whine. _Take pity on me_, it means, and she scolds him for it by running those dagger-nails along his sides until he bleeds. 

Absurdly, he thinks about his blood collecting on her sheets. Tomorrow will she wash the stains out, or will she leave them in as a reminder of what they do here?

“And what of after,” she asks. Her voice is deep and husky, and that she’s still able to carry on a conversation like this is definitely a problem.

He jerks his hips up, tries to pick up the pace. “Nuh-uh,” she warns and slows her already glacial pace even further. He retaliates by removing his hands from her breast, and she moans with disappointment at the loss of contact.

This could easily become a battle of wills if he wanted it to. Turns out, he doesn’t really want to.

“After,” is all he manages. 

“After Harvard Law,” she clarifies. 

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know if he’ll graduate, given how often he’s here in her bed instead of studying.

“Do we have to talk about this now.”

“Yes,” she says. He’s not sure if it’s a real answer though, because she says it as if she’s climaxing. “Yessss, yeeeeeesss.”

“Jesus,” he says, because they’re finally off to the races. 

“Matthew,” she moans.

He grunts in response. It’s all he can manage.

*

Afterward, they share a shower. He licks and sucks at her neck, wants to leave a mark there. The coppery scent of broken capillaries tells him he’s succeeded. 

She moans as he continues to lick and suck. He wonders if she’ll climax from it. 

He wonders if they’ll fuck some more.

She laughs knowingly. Their bodies are hot and wet and soapy, and she smells incredible and he licks his lips because he craves tasting her again. Craves her.

“Matthew,” she moans.

And yeah, it’s going to happen.

She lightly runs her fingernails down his flat stomach. He’s only slightly disappointed when she doesn’t break the skin. Doesn’t make him bleed. Her fingers wrap around his hardening length and he wastes no time in returning the touch. She’s hot and wet and it’s not from the shower.

He’d rather be using his mouth for this. “Do you. Do want to move this back to the bedroom.”

“Do you want nothing more?” she asks instead of answering his question. 

“Please, Elektra. I want--”

“What do you want.”

“I want you.”

She kills the water. Steps out of the shower and begins drying herself off. 

He immediately regrets the loss of hot steam, but he follows suit and dries off too, follows her back to the bedroom.

The smell of sex and sweat, the sound of the bed violently creaking under the weight and movement of their bodies, Elektra’s uninhibited, unabashed moans? Nothing in the world is better. Nothing.

*

When he wakes, the bed is cold and empty. Her apartment is too. 

He dresses, collects whatever personal items he has lying around--his wallet, his cane, his glasses--and heads for the Harvard T stop to take the Red Line home. 

Home. 

Cambridge isn’t home, Hell’s Kitchen is. And once he’s earned his degree, maybe he’ll return there. 

*


	3. Spectral

**Spectral**

*

Elektra haunts him.

Sometimes her voice whispers his name on a crisp autumn breeze or in the rustle of fallen leaves. And her warm vanilla scent lingers sometimes in his bedroom late at night or somehow drifts towards his desk during the workweek in the make-shift office of Nelson and Murdock (and Page.) 

It’s possible he’s imagining things, wishful thinking showing him things that simply aren’t there. There’s no real way to know. Except he’s buried her once before, and still, she came back to him. Who’s to say it couldn’t happen again.

But in the meantime, Elektra haunts him. She calls his name on the wind and leaves the scent of orchids in its wake. 

*


	4. Hidden

**Hidden**

*

Those well trained by the Chaste possess many skills in a wide variety of arts, including the canny and subtle art of deception. It’s a useful skill indeed, especially against one’s opponent.

In this case, she knows to mask her heart and her breath, and does it well and with ease. She knows exactly how to make herself unseen.

Ironic, then, that the man she shields herself from now is a man who sees nothing at all. 

Though perhaps not, because she knows full well that such men are near impervious to ordinary means of deceit.

Men like Stick, the man who trained her and men like Matthew, who pursues her now in his stupid red horns inside this dark, abandoned warehouse. She’s bound herself to a cold support beam so thoroughly it may take the better part of the night just to free her. 

Which suits her just fine. She can think of several ways of putting those stupid horns to good use while Matthew unties her.

She just hopes he doesn’t dawdle in finding her, as there’s typically no heating in abandoned buildings. Nor lights, but that bothers her much less, as the darkness puts them on equal footing, makes the game more interesting if she cannot see him coming. 

While she waits, she focuses on her breathing, her heart rate. Keeps them both well below his threshold. She’s startled out of her meditation when she hears a loud metallic clang, perhaps Matthew striking his baton against some type of surface in an effort to locate her by the way sound reverberates throughout the building. But it won’t do him any good, she’s masked her vital signs too well for that.

But it means he’s drawing near, and soon he’ll discover her. And when he does, the game will have only just begun.

*

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! <3


End file.
